


I've Got Tales like You Wouldn't Believe

by salakavala



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU - Modern Thedas, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Wip forever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-11-23 11:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11401245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salakavala/pseuds/salakavala
Summary: This is a place for my random one-shots that happen when I need a break from bigger projects. Each chapter is a separate story of its own, length varying from a few hundred words to a couple of thousand, and I'll keep updating the tags when relevant. Pull up a chair and take your place by the fire!





	1. Footprints in Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is kidnapped by the Venatori.
> 
> Trespasser spoilers for this chapter, in terms of Dorian and Bull's romance.

Oddly, it isn't the impending death or fear or acceptance that hovers at the edge of Dorian's consciousness when they drag him back into the cave serving as prison. It's Bull.

Bull, raising a cup in Rocky's honour after he collapsed an entire keep on top of the face-changing demon; Bull, laughing in the Western Approach, the blistering sun striping his face and chest through the half-dried trees, in whose laughable shade their little party attempted taking cover; Bull, grimly picking seaweed and corpse grime off his axe in that miserable swamp. Bull, all those times before Dorian came to know him, before he learnt what _hissrad_ meant, before Bull asked about the cracked bell of Minrathous.

Hissrad, they had told him later, hissrad -

“Iron fucking Bull,” Bull had roared, after Adamant.

Dorian is, of course, delirious; he understands, vaguely, that he's losing his grip – that magebane, blood loss, and the lack of sleep and food is incapacitating his mind at a pace that he should find alarming but can't really bother to. It's the end, now. The Venatori have either got what they wanted from him, or realised that they cannot extract any relevant information; Dorian doesn't, can't, remember which of the two it is, and it doesn't matter, anyway, because it's the end – of him, not of Tevinter – and he doesn't regret it. The wheels are in motion, there are people who will finish the path of redemption in his stead, people who had stepped on that road before him and still keep walking.

“Your ship has sailed far enough, Pavus,” someone says, and truly, it speaks of rather poor sense of humour to associate his life with sailing. Dorian has always hated sailing.

“Don't get shipwrecked,” Bull had said. Fondly, rather, or so Dorian had fancied, and had not known he'd sail south yet _again_ , and hear, _Never better, kadan._

And that's all that matters, in the end: _Never better._ Hissrad had been called, but The Iron Bull had answered. Never better, he had said, never better -

 _Kadan._ Perhaps Dorian wouldn't have learnt how to live with it, but he finds he certainly can die holding it. He's allowed; Bull gave him that gift willingly. It's a pity he handled it as poorly as anything else that ever mattered in his life.

 _I'm sorry,_ _amatus._ _You gave me your heart,_ _and_ _I failed to protect_ _it_ _._

Dorian, handing Bull the magical crystal. Bull, handing Dorian a handkerchief. _Take care of_ _yourself -_

.

.

.

.

.

Thank the Maker for small mercies, that it's him who finds Dorian. Chief would've not handled it well. Still won't, but at least he'll get to burn out his blood lust before he'll have to see. But someone has to see _now_ , so Krem looks again, although he doesn't want to.

Aw, no. Fucking _altus._ He hadn't deserved this. Not this way, not this soon, not without Bull at his side.

“What are you -” Stitches. Krem hears him appear behind him, and stumble to a halt. “Is that -? _Maker_ _._ ”

“Yeah.” Krem rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm while Stitches strides to kneel at Dorian's side. “Fuck. We've got to... We've got to.” But he can't finish what they've got to. He wants to kick Pavus instead, to make him get up and go to Chief himself.

“He's alive.”

Krem stares. Stitches raises his eyes, directs them at Krem. There's dirt and sweat and urgency all over his face, and he's furious. “ _I said h_ _e's_ _alive_!”

“Shit,” Krem mutters. “Shit. Right. Chief.”

He turns around and dashes out of the filthy cave. “ _Chief!_ ”

 

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My intention was to write about how Dorian's kidnapping would've ended if Bull had sided with the Qun and no one was there to save him - until I realised I didn't have the heart to have Bull killed and Dorian dying with a sense of betrayal. So I thought I'd kill only Dorian before Bull found him, because how bitter a piece would that be to swallow? But that didn't happen either. I, good people, am weak. I need my happy ending implied at the very least.


	2. Dorian Pavus: Oops, I Did It Again (I've Fallen in Love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone knows the rules of a one-night stand - a fact which makes it that much more vexing when someone doesn't abide by them.

In Dorian's ample experience, one-night stands were mostly harmless, little moments of fun. People, with whom one wouldn't have to interact with later – which was rather the whole point of the affair. That's why one picked them in places where there was little chance of meeting men from one's own social circle, where further association was highly unlikely. That's why one gave false names and left before dawn. It was all about a momentary diversion and no consequence, no matter how kind one's partner was in the moment.

These perfectly clear, easily followed rules in mind, Dorian found it greatly inconvenient and a little alarming that one such man had now made an appearance, and in Dorian's own office at the embassy no less.

“Dorian,” said Josephine – sweet, unassuming Josephine who, surely, would never put Dorian in such a situation on purpose, unless he one more time insulted the Orlaisian ambassador in such a manner that the foolish man might understand it; Josephine and he had an _agreement_. And if it wasn't Josie, it was probably another one of Maker's cruel jests. For a fellow who was supposed to have his back turned on mankind he certainly seemed to put remarkable effort in making Dorian's life difficult. “This is Iron Bull. He is the head of our new security company. Iron Bull, please meet Dorian Pavus, our Tevinter ambassador.”

Ah. So it _had_ been his real name, then. “Mh,” said Dorian, instead of something more appropriate to the situation, for instance.

Perhaps the Orlaisian ambassador had developed some wit before Dorian last saw him, after all, because Josephine looked between them and asked, “Do you gentlemen know each other?”

The right thing to say would be of course no. But if Dorian said no and Iron Bull contradicted it, Josephine's gorgeous nose would smell the secrecy right away. It was bad enough that Dorian's family drama had somehow become practically a general topic of discussion, though that had been courtesy of the ever well-meaning Evelyn Trevelyan, but this – this he didn't need.

So: “I – believe we've met. Briefly.”

Iron Bull tilted his head slightly, with a small grin. Looked like his eye-patch wasn't just a conversation starter, either. “I don't know. Have we? Don't remember meeting anyone by the name of Pavus before.”

Dorian, to his dismay, felt his ears heating. “Ah. Apologies. I must be mistaken then.”

“Well, then,” said Josephine, undoubtedly taking the exchange for what it was and tactfully assuming the lead again, “We must proceed with the tour. Dorian.” She nodded at him and strode onwards, Iron Bull in tow, and left Dorian alone in his office.

Dorian closed the door, thumped his forehead against it, stayed like that for a few calculated moments, and continued about his day. It would be all right; he wouldn't see the head of the security much anyway.

*

Dorian, in fact, ended up seeing quite a lot of Bull. Turned out that security didn't just sit in some stuffy room eating greasy pizza and barely paying attention to surveillance cameras – or, well, apparently their previous company had done just that, which greatly contributed to the fact that they were now _previous_ – but instead _Bull's Chargers_ actually actively ran security checks all around the building. They also turned out to be friendly to people, which was a first too.

Bull, in particular, made a point of being friendly with everyone, including Dorian – to the extent that Dorian began suspecting that he was certainly playing at something. The man had needled him about their tryst upon their first meeting in the embassy, so there simply was no way he didn't hold a grudge, or other antipathy. Well, whatever his game was, it would be revealed one way or another; no one with a good hand ever had the patience to hold his cards close to his chest for long.

But as the days and weeks passed, it began in increasing measures to look like Bull was, as a matter of fact, just genuinely that nice. A pity, really. It would have been easier to act according to the rules that Dorian had rooted in his backbone. Now he had no other options but to _like_ Bull. Like him quite a bit, as the matter was, which was quite a bit more than Dorian had expected or knew how to deal with.

So there he was, finding himself having lunch with Bull whenever possible – at first just because all the others had seemed to be drawn near the tables that the Chargers occupied and Dorian had refused to sit alone in a corner, and then because he also found himself quite personally drawn to Bull in particular. And when Dorian got to know Bull better, it felt natural to start stopping to exchange a few words with him whenever they bumped into each other in the corridors. From there it was an easy slip to joining the Chargers in a local pub for a round of drinks every now and then. Nothing terribly personal, of course – Dorian wasn't the only one invited for a pint with their new security team for some good time. Still, the truth was that Dorian rather enjoyed Bull's company, and the feeling appeared to be mutual, as Dorian was yet to made feel unwelcome. He, of course, knew better than to read too much into Bull's general kindness and to entertain any further fantasies of what might have been, had he introduced himself as Dorian Pavus on that ill-considered night all those weeks ago; any time Dorian might spend with Bull was on purely companionable basis.

But then there were nights when Dorian would fetch two take-away cups of coffee instead of one when he knew Bull would be returning from hissecurity round outside – Fereldan weather _was_ all sorts of awful even without the morbid season of dread they so mildly called 'winter'. And there were nights, when Dorian had to stay in his office late after an exceptionally nerve-wrecking day, and Bull was being exceptionally kind to him. On those nights Dorian found himself with only Bull in the round-the-clock cafeteria near the offices, or in the local pub only a few blocks away. Bull would listen to his endless ramblings about impossible clients and sneering politicians, and after he was drained, Bull would divert him from his worries with colourful stories of the interesting jobs the Chargers had been part of all across the southern Thedas.

It was one of those late nights when Bull entered Dorian's office with a quiet knock; the door had beenajar, barely anyone left in the building at that hour anyway. When Bull entered, Dorian was at his desk, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples; an interlude in his bitter debate with mercilessly twisted formal phrases.

“Rough day?” Bull asked, taking the seat across from Dorian's with easy habit.

It was mildly exasperating how Bull could extract a smile from Dorian without his explicit leave, but smile Dorian did as he turned to the qunari. “Oh, the usual. You know how it is.”

“Pretty late to be the usual,” commented Bull, and was right about it; Dorian rarely stayed after ten, and almost never after eleven. But today indeed was an exception.

“What can I do?” He gestured at his computer screen. “Josephine accepted an unexpected client from Tevinter. The woman doesn't speak Trade, and filled all the documents in Tevene. It is crucial Josephine gets them by tomorrow noon, so here I am, trying my metaphorical wings at translation.”

“Yeah? Those wings take you far?”

“Well, I expect to be done within the next thirty minutes. Draw of that any conclusion you will, although I should let you know there _were_ quite a few attachments to this document.” Dorian turned to his screen again and let out a loud sigh that demonstrated what he thought of those attachments, exactly.

“I'll leave you guys be then,” Bull said good-naturedly and stood up. “Just dropped by the say hello. Gotta finish my own shift too.”

Dorian decisively ignored the little pang behind his ribs and waved a dismissive goodbye, returning to his work, but at the door Bull halted and turned back to him. “Hey, tell you what. I'll clock out in forty-five. How about I take you for a drink afterwards?”

“I'd rather you take me here,” Dorian muttered, frowning at the screen. It was a legal document, for Andraste's sake, who in their right mind filled one with the most swirling and ill-translatable idioms they could invent? Was Josephine's client a pretentious altus, or merely aspiring to be one?

“Uh, what?” Bull asked.

The odd tone of his words shook Dorian from his thoughts, and he raised his eyes at Bull. “What?”

Bull was looking at him with certain intensity, and Dorian mentally backtracked the last few turns of their conversation. Had he said something wrong? Bull had mentioned drinks, and Dorian… Dorian had…

Oh, no. No, for Maker's sweet mercy, please not _that_.

Then again, they had already established that Maker had very little mercy reserved for Dorian.

He practically glued his nose to his screen, in a futile attempt to maintain the sad remains of his dignity. “Please forget anything I might have spoken in the course of the past five minutes. The hour does play tricks with one's mind. Speaking of which, I really do need to finish this translation, and I'm sure you have things to do, what with this building's safety on your shoulders and all.” Albeit those were remarkably broad shoulders. “Good night.”

Bull didn't go, though. Instead of leaving Dorian alone with his burning shame, he remained precisely where he stood at the door.

“Hey,” he said, slowly, “If you want, I can go. Or I can take you for that drink or give you a lift home and never mention this again. But, if you want, I can give you a ride home _and_ take you apart.”

Bull's tone drew Dorian's gaze back to him. Bull continued, “One condition, though: you'll be able to look me in the eye tomorrow, and I get to call you by your real name this time.”

A low blow, that – one that Dorian wholly deserved. He momentarily closed his eyes, unable to maintain eye contact, and then forced himself to face Bull. _Kaffas_ , Bull – Bull was a good man. He was worthy of more than what Dorian had given him – or could give him. He should explain that to him, he _wanted_ to explain that to him, but words eluded him; all his reasoning suddenly appeared beyond ridiculous. So, not knowing what else to say, Dorian told the important part of the truth.

“Bull. I treated you poorly that night. I apologise. You are a good man, and...” Dorian trailed off. _And I'm not worthy of you._ True, but Dorian wasn't selfless enough to step back because of that. _And I'm afraid I won't be able to let you go afterwards._ Now, that was closer to home. Honesty; how Dorian despised it sometimes. _And I want more than what you_ _are offering_ _._ But Dorian couldn't find it in himself to say any of this, so he merely opened his arms in a helpless gesture and hoped that Bull would accept the answer.

Bull was still watching him intently. Either he was waiting for Dorian to continue, or he was trying to extract what Dorian meant from what Dorian was saying. Bull was like that – always trying to understand.

So Dorian tried to, for once, be truthful. “I gave you a fake name, because leaving is easier when the matter is dealt with anonymously. Surely you understand that when anonymity disappears and one continues the acquaintance, leaving becomes… harder.”

Bull took a few steps back into the room and sat down on the chair he had previously occupied. “Dorian,” he said, after a pause. “If you don't want to get into anything, that's fine. Doesn't have to change things. But if you do...” Bull held his gaze. “Don't know where you got it into your head that you've _got_ to leave, but it's bullshit. No one's got to leave afterwards, not you, not me, unless you want to.”

“Bull,” Dorian said, a little too softly even in his own ears. “I'm not talking about the morning after.”

“Then we're on the same page,” said Bull, with a level look. “Neither am I.”

Dorian crossed his arms and leant slightly back on his seat, frowning. “Are you… serious?” He challenged Bull's gaze, and then shook his head. “You _are_ serious.”

“And you're surprised.”

“This isn't how I imagined this conversation would go, exactly.” Dorian shook his head again. “In fact, I didn't imagine this conversation to happen at all. I'm rather more used to… This isn't what I'm used to.”

“I figured.”

“Did you?” Dorian wasn't sure he did. “People don't usually _want_ to stay.”

Bull regarded him for some moments – Dorian could see the wheels turn in his mind – before he spoke. “Consider this, though. You stopped to interrupt the Orlaisian guy's business lunch when you heard him call me an ox to his partner.”

“A effort no doubt lost on him,” Dorian snorted. “I don't dare believe he grasped my intention.”

“His companion grasped it just fine, though,” Bull marked. “And Josephine was within earshot _._ ”

“Bull, what's your point?”

“Point is that I can't see a damn reason to not want to stay. Think it's time someone took care of you for a change. I can do that.” He paused, to make sure Dorian heard him. “I want to do that.”

Dorian was up from his seat and half-way to Bull before he even knew it. “If that is the case,” he said, lowering his palms on Bull's shoulders, “If that is the case, I find I do not object to your care.”

Bull's large palms landed on Dorian's hips with a little squeeze, with a pleasant weight to it, grounding. Bull's smile spread tingling from his gut towards his fingertips. “Then you'd better finish your translation,” he said with a soft grin. “And I've got to finish my shift. And then, then I'll make good on that promise of a ride.” He winked, with his _sole eye, Dorian might remind_ , and looked at him, beaming expectantly.

Dorian groaned and smacked Bull on the chest. “That was _atrocious._ ”

“You like it,” said Bull, and, judging by the way warmth spilt in Dorian's chest, was right about it, too.

  


X


	3. Necromancer's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a reason the Bull had survived ten years on Seheron. Each scar on his body was a love confession from death.

“There,” Stitches said, securing the ends of the bandages that went around the Bull's sides and stomach and over one shoulder. “The wounds have closed well, but we'll keep this here for a week more. A reminder that you're _not_ in the condition to leap at the first wyvern you see.” His tone was clinical, but edges of anger cut through the professional surface. Only part of that anger was directed at the Bull.

“Damn.” Bull grunted a laugh. “Wasted chance for an impressive scar.”

Stitches made an angry sound. “You're lucky you’ll get a scar at all, instead of dying before the wound could even close!”

“I've got a tough skin.”

“Chief,” snapped Krem, who was hovering by the tent flap. “That's not a wound people survive. Not even tough-skinned asshole qunari, so stop pulling stupid shit like that or we’ll be renamed Krem’s Chargers.”

“I'm built for taking hits,” the Bull insisted, shrugging. He sounded almost petulant. “Been always like that.”

Stitches lost his temper completely. He never yelled when he was angry, but his voice would get sharp and chilling and unnervingly authoritative. “You were practically gutted like fish. I'll speak plainly, Chief: you should have died. And this is not the first time it happens.”

“The concern is touching, guys,” the Bull answered dryly.

Stitches said nothing and turned to pack his tools. Krem only shook his head, arms crossed.

“Hey.” The Bull’s voice had gone slightly softer. “I'm gonna be fine.”

Stitches said, “No fighting or any sort of physical exercise until I say you can. So help me Maker, ser, if I catch you axe in hand.”

Calm as Stitches' voice once again appeared, he was not joking. Should the Bull disobey, his healer _would_ make him suffer.

Dorian knew this, because he had seen it happen, back when the Bull's ensemble had yet been relatively new; he'd known the Chargers as long as the Bull had. He'd known the Bull even longer, ever since the first time he should have died, on Seheron. Dorian had coaxed the Bull’s life-spirit to remain in his body, then. It had been mild fascination at first, nothing more. A point of curiosity, so to speak. _What if he shouldn't die now?_

He hadn’t let the Bull’s spirit fade away ever since.

One day, Dorian knew, the Bull would have to die. Sooner rather than later, reckless as the man was with his life; one day the hit would be too hard, and the connection of the body and the spirit would be severed irreparably, impossible for Dorian to weave anew. But not yet. Not until the Bull was ready, his Chargers were ready. Not until Dorian was ready, either.

Because when the Bull died, his spirit would move on. He wasn't a mage – not a necromancer – and he wouldn't linger. When the Bull died, Dorian would lose him.

So as long as possible, he would keep death off the Bull – linger behind him, pull his spirit back into his body when necessary, shield him from what blows he could. Unseen, unheard, and, he knew, unwanted, should the Bull be aware of his presence. But Dorian had been a selfish man, once, a quality that had remained in his spirit even after his body had perished, and so he stayed.

Just a little longer.

X


	4. If the Heart Dies in the Trenches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes nine days to find Dorian, after they hear the news.
> 
> This is a companion piece to chapter 1, from the Chargers' view.

 

 

 

On first day, no one says anything.

 

 

 

 

 

On second day, Krem quietly pulls the Bull aside. He doesn’t bother to take off his gauntlets before punching Bull on the shoulder, the one where Stitches just yesterday did his best to bandage the wound. It hurts, and it’s what Bull needs. “Chief. You continue like this, you’re dead. You need food. You need rest.”

“You saying we should slow down to give them time to torture and kill him, Krem? That what you’re saying?”

Krem grasps Bull’s shoulder, hard, makes sure to hold his gaze. “I’m saying I won’t get my ass kicked for your stupidity when the altus learns that you’ve got yourself killed.”

They stop for that night, barely.

 

 

 

 

 

On third day, the Chargers start exchanging glances behind Bull’s back.

 

 

 

 

 

On fourth day, Stitches mixes a dose of sleep potion into Bull’s broth.

 

 

 

 

 

On fifth day, Stitches does it again, and Krem and Grim force Bull to eat it. Dalish weeps, when it’s done.

 

 

 

 

 

On sixth day, Rocky disappears for the entire day and returns after they’ve set up the camp. There is soot on his face, but it doesn’t hide the red in his eyes. Skinner takes his watch.

 

 

 

 

 

On seventh day, Bull wordlessly hides the crystal in the same wooden box where he’s been keeping the two dragon tooth halves. That night, they march on.

 

 

 

 

 

On eighth day, Krem silently gives up hope.

 

 

 

 

 

On ninth day, they find the site of the fight and a clear trail. On that day, the grey crumbles away, and the world is washed in colour again. The colour is red.

The red fades too, with quiet murmuring and a gentle swipe of a handkerchief with a crappy self-stitched dragon in one corner. “I’m sorry, _amatus_. I sullied your gift.”

Bull wordlessly closes Dorian’s fingers around the bloodied handkerchief and presses his forehead to his knuckles. The fingertips of Dorian’s other hand come to rest on the crown of his head, between the horns.

The immediate danger is past them. Stitches lets the tent flap fall down behind him and goes to sit by the fire, where Rocky is singing about Maryden.

 

*


	5. Stranger Fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull loves the new TV show. Dorian hates the new TV show. Dorian might not, however, necessarily be entirely opposed to watching Bull talking about the new TV show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could say this ficlet belongs to the same universe with [A Spoonful of Sugar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8276515). I might write other similar ficlets in that particular AU and publish them here.

 

 

In truth, Dorian didn’t much care for the new dragon series that seemed to have infiltrated every home with a television in it, except of course for Dorian’s, because he, at least, was a man of refined taste. The only one of such kind in Ferelden, apparently. In fact, he quite detested the series, from every cliched dragon fight to every cheesy line between the main romantic couple. (Honestly, no one in real life, however ridiculously in love and insecure about it, could be _that dense_.)

Bull, unsurprisingly, loved it. Loved watching it, and loved talking about it to the point where Dorian resigned to braving through every episode himself just so that he’d know which ridiculous new turn Bull was talking about. Not that Bull never forced it on him the way Sera did, rubbing each new episode into his face whenever it came out, but Dorian wasn’t stupid, or half blind, like some people. _As if_ he didn’t see how the big lummox would perk up at the slightest mention of the series and dive right in horns first should Dorian provide an opening for the topic. Which, admittedly, he found himself doing quite often. To get a chance to moan over some new low point in television history, mostly.

Well, maybe also a little bit because of how Bull’s face always lit up like a bloody light bulb and how he’d always lean towards Dorian in his enthusiasm, gesticulating with his hands to illustrate some point or another.

In retrospect, encouraging those particular conversations was rather self-indulgent of Dorian, and very unwise besides, considering how stupidly happy and a little bittersweet it made him to see Bull talk so passionately about something he loved. It made Dorian never want to get up and return to his own apartment. In fact, it made him want to curl up against Bull’s side and let him go on for as long as he liked, and then still stay there after Bull had finished.

Not that it was going to happen – it was real life, after all, not a silly TV show – so Dorian was content to occupy the other end of Bull’s lousy sofa and listen to him prattle on about the latest development in a fictional world with enormous, fire-breathing reptiles. And why wouldn’t he? He did, after all, know all about the allure of a fantasy.

*


End file.
